Found Wanting

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Are you about to repay me the ten thousand euros, Richard?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Marty did not leave the money at my mother’s apartment. Therefore he accepted it. But he did not deliver his side of the bargain. Where is the real attaché case?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Not really. But it is true. He told me the real case would be waiting for him in Amsterdam and he encouraged me to go back to London, just like I told you. But I’d been put through so much by then, thanks to the tricks the pair of you were playing on each other, that I decided, after setting off for the airport, to go back and demand a slice of whatever the contents of the case were worth. I reckoned I was owed that.’ Straub’s expression suggested he found this credible. Eusden was gambling that a confession of greed on his part would be more convincing than anything else. ‘I’ve been ripped off by Marty a good few times over the years. The ten thou is obviously nothing to what he and you think the letters will fetch. So, why shouldn’t I get a cut of the action?’

  ‘It is a… an understandable point of view, I would have to admit.’ Straub’s tone hinted at relief. He was comfortable with venality. He knew how to deal with it.

  ‘I thought I’d be able to catch up with Marty at the station, but he wasn’t waiting for the Amsterdam train. It was pure luck I was in the right place at the right moment to see him leaving for Copenhagen.’

  ‘And where was that place, Richard?’ The question, apparently trivial, was actually a vital piece of fact-checking. Straub knew Hamburg central station as well as a native of the city would.

  ‘I was on the walkway above the platforms. The train had pulled out before I could get down there. I came after him by the next train. I think it’s pretty clear he had the case sent here, not Amsterdam, don’t you?’

  ‘It would seem so, certainly.’

  ‘If I can find him, I’m sure I can persuade him to rope me in. But into what? He’s a dying man, Werner. I doubt he has the energy, the resources or the contacts that you do. In other words, I doubt he can get such a good price as you can.’

  A smile flickered around Straub’s mouth. ‘Are you proposing some kind of deal, Richard?’

  ‘I’ll track him down sooner or later. When I do, I’ll contact you. After all, you’re the one with the buyer in place, aren’t you?’

  ‘True. And here she comes.’ Straub dropped his voice to add: ‘Very well, Richard. We are agreed. But find Marty soon, no? The quicker the better, for all of us.’

  ‘You two are looking kinda conspiratorial,’ said Regina, as she shimmied back into her seat. ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Straub replied. ‘Though perhaps disappointed. Richard has decided he cannot visit Hvidøre with us. He must continue his search for Marty.’

  ‘That’s a real shame. But… I guess I understand. Lord knows, we want you to find him.’

  ‘We do,’ Straub glanced intently at Eusden. ‘Indeed we do.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Eusden woke early the following morning. He made some coffee and drank it gazing out at the roofs of Copenhagen, wondering whether it was better to wait for Marty to call, or try his luck again with the Århus Kommunehospital switchboard. There was a lot Marty had to know before he arrived in Copenhagen. If he arrived in Copenhagen. The news that Straub was lying in wait for him might put him off the idea altogether.

  In the event, Marty rang before Eusden had finished his coffee. ‘I’m getting out of here today whatever the sawbones says,’ he announced. ‘I spoke to Kjeldsen yesterday. He’s expecting you at eleven o’clock. I also spoke to Bernie. He’s going to insist Vicky returns to London. When he snaps his fingers, his daughters jump, so that’s a problem solved. I guess it’ll be mid- to late afternoon before I make it to Copenhagen. No need to come to the station. I’ll meet you at the Phoenix.’

  But that was not a good idea, as Eusden set about explaining. And Straub’s presence in the city was not the only cause of concern. Eusden also had to report Burgaard’s fatal so-called accident. Marty was singularly unfazed, however.

  ‘You’re getting better at this, Richard. You seem to have played Werner like a fish on a line. Well, you’re right, of course. The Phoenix is obviously out. I’ll tell you what. There’s a Hilton at Copenhagen airport. I’ll book myself in there. It’s only a quarter of an hour from the centre and it’s the last place Werner would think of looking; he knows I won’t be coming or going by plane. He’ll be out at Klampenborg with Regina when you collect the case and you can take a taxi to the Hilton later. I’ll call you when I know what time I’ll be arriving. As for Burgaard, good riddance. It’s bloody lucky you weren’t in the car. But don’t overreact. It sounds like it was an accident to me: cocky Karsten putting his foot down when he should’ve been watching out for black ice. Serves the treacherous little bastard right. No sense getting paranoid at this stage, hey?’

  ‘There’s a big difference between paranoia and commonsense cautiousness.’ Marty’s unquenchable optimism was beginning to worry Eusden. Did the doctors have him on happy pills? ‘What about Straub’s hired heavy? Shouldn’t we be asking ourselves if he might start tailing me now his boss knows I’m in town?’

  ‘He was Hamburg muscle, Richard. Werner will have paid him off long since.’

  ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

  ‘OK, OK. Keep a look out for a bald-headed seven-footer built like a wardrobe. You see what I’m saying? He was taken on for enforcement, not surveillance. You’d spot him a mile off. Werner would have to buy in local talent and he can’t do that while he’s got his hands full with the widow Celeste. Everything’s going to be fine. I’m feeling heaps better and Kjeldsen’s going to give you the name of a reliable and discreet translator. We’ve got this in the bag, Richard. All we have to do is hold our nerve.’

  It sounded simple and straightforward as Marty put it. Eusden could not decide whether it was merely the pessimistic nature Marty had always attributed to him that accounted for his suspicion that the day would somehow turn out otherwise.

  Marty would certainly not have been surprised that he arrived absurdly early for his appointment with Kjeldsen – and without a single glimpse of a mountainous German dogging his footsteps. Jorcks Passage was an old, narrow arcade of shops, with offices on the floors above, linking Strøget with Skindergade. A board at the Strøget end listed the occupants, among them Anders Kjeldsen, advokat. Eusden whiled away half an hour in a nearby coffee shop, then went up in a tiny wheezing lift to the lawyer’s third-floor lair.

  The door was ajar. Eusden tapped and pushed it further open. A heavily built man clad in a baggy grey suit was standing by the window of a disorderly, paper-strewn office, smoking a cigarette and gazing down into the arcade. He had long hair matching the colour of his suit tied back in a ponytail and a doleful, jowly, pockmarked face. The creak of the door seemed to catch his attention where the tap had not.

  ‘Mr Eusden?’ His voice was gravel mixed with treacle.

  ‘Yes. Hr Kjeldsen?’

  ‘Yes. I am Kjeldsen. Come in.’ He moved to a desk piled high with paperwork, propped his cigarette in an ashtray and turned to offer his hand. They shook. ‘Sit down. Please.’

  Eusden sat as directed. Kjeldsen flopped into the chair on the other side of the desk and shaped an awkward smile. His manner suggested they were meeting to discuss a divorce or the death of a close relative. Eusden smiled himself, seeking to lighten the mood. ‘Marty spoke to you yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kjeldsen gave an exaggerated, donkeyish nod. ‘He did.’

  ‘So, can I have the case, please?’

  ‘Do you have ID?’

  ‘Sure.’ Eusden pulled out his passport.

  ‘Tak.’ Kjeldsen examined it briefly. Then his face crumpled into an apologetic grimace. ‘There is a problem, Mr Eusden.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘A serious one. I do
not have the case.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Last night…’ Kjeldsen broke off for a drag on his cigarette, then began again. ‘Last night, someone came in here, opened the safe’ – he waved a hand towards the safe in question, which stood, stout and apparently secure, in a corner – ‘and stole some money, some jewellery I was storing for another client… and Mr Hewitson’s case.’

  Eusden was at first too shocked to respond. Apart from anything else, there was no sign of a break-in or of any damage to the safe. For this at least Kjeldsen was swift to supply an explanation.

  ‘As I told the police, it is obvious who is responsible. I had to dismiss my secretary last week. She had become… unreliable. She knew the combination of the safe. She must have made a copy of the keys. So, she stole the money and the jewellery and took the case… hoping it contained something valuable. I did not mention the case to the police. I wanted to speak to you or Mr Hewitson first. Did it, in fact, contain something valuable – something easily converted into cash, I mean?’

  ‘Not easily, no.’ Eusden shook his head at the thought of how he was going to break this to Marty.

  ‘Then, she will probably get rid of it. She has probably already got rid of it. She knows I will send the police after her. Do you want me to tell them about it?’

  ‘Why not?’ Eusden threw the question at Kjeldsen like an accusation, though technically the only thing he could accuse him of was poor choice of secretarial staff.

  ‘There are sometimes reasons why people do not wish such things to be told to the authorities. But I will make sure the police know about the case, now that you have… cleared up the matter.’ Kjeldsen shrugged helplessly. ‘Though, as I say, she will almost certainly have thrown it away by this time. A canal; a skip: anywhere. There is nothing to say who owns it, so-’

  ‘How do you know that?’ The Foreign Office had honed Eusden’s analytical nature even if it had stifled his soul. There was a flaw in Kjeldsen’s logic. And he sensed it might be significant.

  ‘Know what… Mr Eusden?’ Kjeldsen asked, blatantly prevaricating.

  ‘How do you know there’s nothing to say who owns the case? Your former secretary will have broken it open before discarding it, won’t she? How do you know Marty’s name and address aren’t inside?’

  ‘I believe…’ Kjeldsen resorted to his cigarette to win further thinking time, but it had burned down nearly to the filter and he was obliged to content himself with a protracted stubbing-out. Then: ‘I believe Mr Hewitson said so. Or perhaps it was… Ms Shadbolt.’

  The man was lying. That was clear. But just how big was the lie? ‘Where does your ex-secretary live, Hr Kjeldsen?’

  ‘I cannot tell you that, Mr Eusden. It is… a police matter. But they have promised to be in touch. And I will contact you as soon as I hear from them. You are staying at the Phoenix, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, wait for news, then, Mr Eusden. I am sorry. I am… professionally embarrassed. For such a thing to happen is… awful. I blame drugs. I suspect my secretary had… an expensive habit. Employing the right people… is so difficult.’

  ‘That’s certainly true.’ Eusden looked Kjeldsen in the eye, letting him understand exactly what he meant.

  ‘Please give my… personal apologies… to Mr Hewitson. All we can do now is… hope the police get lucky.’

  ‘You’ll let them know about the case?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘What’s the name of the officer handling the inquiry? I’d like to speak to him myself.’

  Kjeldsen smiled unreassuringly. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘To make sure every effort to find the case is being made.’

  ‘You can leave that to me, Mr Eusden. I am sorry to say many of our police officers speak rather poor English. There would be confusion, miscommunication. I will ensure they do everything they need to do. And I will keep you informed of progress.’

  ‘If there is any.’

  ‘Let us say when there is any.’ Kjeldsen’s smile remained fixed in place. ‘We must try to be positive.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Eusden was angry and frustrated. Angry because he was convinced it was Kjeldsen, not his phantom former secretary, who had stolen the case. Frustrated because he could hardly go straight to the police and confirm they had received no report of a burglary in Jorcks Passage, then lodge a complaint against Kjeldsen, since Marty had made it very clear police involvement in his activities was something he wished to avoid at all costs. Kjeldsen probably knew that and was trading on it. He must have broken into the case and judged he could make a lot of money out of the contents. How was an open question; how soon the more pressing issue.

  Eusden had to speak to Marty. That at least was certain. But he would not be able to do so for several hours. A message was waiting for him at the Phoenix. Catching 11.54 train. Meet you at the hotel 4 p.m. Marty. Marty had been phoneless since Straub had stolen his mobile and would probably have kept it switched off even if he still had one. It would be mid-afternoon before Eusden could speak to him, out at the airport Hilton, a long way from Jorcks Passage.

  That could not be helped. Or could it? Eusden suddenly realized there was a way to bring forward their meeting by an hour or so. Marty would have to change trains at Copenhagen central station and Eusden could be waiting for him when he stepped off the 11.54 from Århus.

  That still left him with time to kill, which he resolved to put to good purpose by harassing Kjeldsen. He returned to Jorcks Passage and phoned the slippery lawyer on his mobile while loitering in the entrance to the arcade.

  ‘Any news from the police, Hr Kjeldsen?’

  ‘I regret not, Mr Eusden. But it is only… just over an hour… since we met. These things take time. Have you spoken with Mr Hewitson?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s arriving in Copenhagen later today. I’m sure he’ll want to hear your explanation of what happened in person.’

  ‘Bring him to see me, then. What time will he be arriving?’

  ‘We could be with you by five.’

  I will expect you then.’

  Eusden continued to loiter and was rewarded, twenty minutes later, by the sight of Kjeldsen emerging from the entrance to his office’s stairway at the other end of the arcade, muffled up in loden coat and scarf. He ambled off along Skindergade and Eusden followed at a discreet distance. There were enough shoppers about, and office workers taking their lunch breaks, for him to blend into the background. Kjeldsen appeared wholly unconcerned about the possibility of being tailed. An Italian restaurant in a small square nearby turned out to be his destination.

  There was a café opposite, where Eusden nabbed a table with a suitable eyeline and washed a toasted sandwich down with a couple of Tuborg Grøns while monitoring Kjeldsen’s activities. He emerged from the restaurant after forty minutes or so, patting his stomach contentedly like someone who had put away a table d’hôte lunch with expeditious relish. Eusden had already settled up and exited with the lawyer still in view. Kjeldsen popped into a secondhand bookshop for a few minutes on his way back to Jorcks Passage, rounding off an entirely convincing performance in the role of a man going about his customary lunchtime routine.

  Eusden had learnt nothing of the remotest value. He decided to head for the station.

  The 11.54 from Århus, it transpired, ran through to the airport. Marty would not be getting off; Eusden would be getting on. He eked out an hour sipping Americanos in a coffee shop, watching the sky darken over Rådhuspladsen. Sleety rain began to fall. Eventually, the time came for him to return to the station.

  He bought his ticket and went down to the platform. The Københavns Lufthavn train rolled in on schedule at 3.20. He did not catch sight of Marty as the carriages decelerated past him, but there were lots of people rising from their seats to disembark. He would find him soon enough.

  The train had an ei
ght-minute lay-over before proceeding. Eusden waited to see if Marty would get off for a smoke. He did not. Eusden boarded at the front and started working his way through the carriages. He reached the other end before the eight minutes were up. Marty was nowhere to be seen. He started retracing his steps. The train left the station. Still he could not find Marty.

  It was a twelve-minute run to the airport. Long before the train arrived, Eusden knew what he could not quite bring himself to believe: Marty was not aboard.

  He lingered in the foyer of the airport Hilton until gone four o’clock, clinging to the frail hope that Marty would still turn up. He did not. And it became bleakly obvious to Eusden that he was never going to. He phoned Århus Kommunehospital, who confirmed Marty had discharged himself earlier in the day; he was no longer any concern of theirs.

  But he remained of great concern to Eusden, who could think only of sinister explanations for his friend’s failure to make it to Copenhagen. He phoned the Phoenix. There was no message for him, from Marty or anyone else. But Marty’s earlier message had been clear. Catching 11.54 train. Yet he had not caught it. Or if he had, he had got off somewhere along the way. Why would he have done that? He had been intent on reaching Copenhagen that day. Hence his insistence on leaving the hospital. He would surely not have got off the train unless compelled to do so.

  Eusden thought about the van that had nearly run Marty down and the car crash that had killed Burgaard. He wondered, chillingly, if he had made it to Copenhagen himself only because whoever had run Burgaard off the road thought he was in the car as well. That made his survival an oversight, a discrepancy to be corrected as soon as it was deemed convenient.

  He walked out of the hotel into the airport, his legs rubbery, his mind scrambled. He felt like a ghost, drifting through the bustling crowds of travellers: the businessmen, the tourists, the family groups. Everyone was going somewhere, except him. He gazed up at the departures board. Every destination offered him an escape route. He could return to London. He could jet off to Bangkok or New York or… anywhere he chose. He had the means. He had the opportunity. And he had the reason. All he needed to do now was walk up to one of the airline desks, flash his credit card… and fly away from all this.